


Dreams and Theories Laid to Rest

by NoraPenblood (orphan_account)



Series: Empty Houses and Unlocked Doors [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death-Fic, Everything Hurts, Introspection, M/M, More angst, My attempt at shitty Johnlock, Other, first-person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:56:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/NoraPenblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I sleep I dream of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Theories Laid to Rest

It’s been six and a half months since you left me here; since I watched you take a step off the roof of a hospital. It’s been six and a half months and nothing has changed except everything. I don’t go out, I don’t speak with Greg or Mrs. Hudson or anyone at all. I sit at home, our home, a home you left me in, and just stare at the walls. Sometimes I lose myself and pretend that you’re coming back, that you're out darting around London and you’ll be back at some ungodly hour, grinning like a madman.

I sleep often, I eat rarely. When I am hanging on the edge of passing out I often wonder how much weight I’ve lost since you left. I must be nearly as light as you. I cut that thought off before it has a chance to grow into the spiralling train of destruction that remembering you falling brings on. If you were a bit lighter maybe you wouldn’t have fallen at all, and I know that’s a stupid thing to think, but it’s there nonetheless.

 

When I sleep I dream of you. I dream of how we ran, of how we laughed. I dream of Baskerville and you screaming at me. I’d give anything for you back here, even if you were angry and hated me for seeing your emotions. I dream of you and your violin. I dream of coming home drunk off my arse and kissing you with sloppy abandon. I dream of your face, twisted in disgust as you send me off to bed without a word.

The dreams morph into reality; I see you in your chair when I drag myself down the steps from my bedroom for only the necessary food. I see you in the kitchen, playing with long ago shattered test tubes and beakers. I see you in your room when I accidentally stumble in there. I see you lying on your back with your eyes wide and glassy and blood spattered across your pale face, matting those black curls.

I cry a lot. I never cried before, not really, but now I cry so often I feel like perhaps my eyes will dry up and fall out. I sometimes wish they would. One day I fell down the stairs, my malnourished legs giving out. Mrs. Hudson came to check on me, the poor woman, and found me unconscious in a puddle of blood. She thought I’d killed myself. I wish I had.

I don’t visit your grave anymore, it just seems hollow. There’s no point in crying to a carcass that used to house the most perfect mind in the world. I am losing my mind slowly, and in all honesty it feels alright. I think sometimes, what if you survived? What if it was all some elaborate ruse to get away from me?

At night, when it’s terribly dark and quiet, I start to ponder over your death. Dark, twisted, stupid things fill my mind.

What if you and Moriarty were together the whole time? What if it was all some strange game you played together, the worlds smartest toddlers, one of you coming down to play with the little people while the other pretended to destroy him. What if everything, everything from the cabbie and onward was all a brilliant plot for the pointless destruction of normal peoples lives? 

But no, no, that’s stupid. Not even you could’ve been that great an actor, to fool a whole world just to entertain yourself. I know you were real, Sherlock. I know you were a good man. Moriarty was a spider, like you said, and you were just the insect he wanted to catch.

In the end he got us both, didn’t he?

 

I decide maybe I should do something about this, just sitting around miserably doting over the memory of you, the weird conspiracy theories beginning to force me deeper under the surface. I go to the morgue one last time, the first time in months, and tell Molly what I need. She nods and I can still see the difference in her eyes. She knows what I’m doing, and she won’t try to stop me.

She sends me my medicine three days later, no note, not begging me to reconsider. She lost herself just like the rest of us. I take the little bottle of pills to your bedroom, blinking away any wayward memories. You are not here, you are not kissing me, you are not holding me to your chest and snoring obnoxiously in my ear. You are dead. And so shall I be.

I take them all at once, drowning them in whiskey and lying back on your sheets with my face buried in the place your head used to rest on the rare occasions you used this room. It becomes hard to breathe and I swallow reflexively, my heart throbbing an uneven cadence, my breath coming in short pants.

Everything blurs and I shut my eyes. It’s very nearly over, I think, as I feel something cold wash over me and everything goes black.


End file.
